No. 68: That Used to Hurt

bronchitis reflections

I’m always writing. The majority of notes in my phone are reflections in the moment that I mark, “is this something?” Most essays are just things for me to look back on, but sometimes these get shared when I need them. And today, I need them. As I’m typing this, I’m healing from a sneaky bronchitis that I mistook for allergies until I felt like I was having a heart attack for forty-eight hours straight. I’m thankful, for steroids and potassium and a husband who cares for me so well. I’m also thankful for some reflections tucked away so I can show up here even while I recover. Also, for those of you who will email me in concern, this started Monday and by the time you’ll be reading this, I pray I’ll be more than fine. It’ll be short and sweet this week but, Lord willing, I’ll be back with a fashion post I’m super excited. The following note was written a few months ago in the dark hours of the night while nursing Enakhe—the most common writing scene in my life for the past six months.

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Tonight, I looked down at my hand while reading E’s bedtime story. His little fingers were resting on the spot between my pointer finger and my thumb and my first thought was, “there is absolutely nothing more precious than these fingers, each of them thimble sized with a nail no bigger than a single drop of water.” My second thought wast the realization that for the first time in a while, that spot on my hand didn’t hurt. I had burned my hand on the curling iron—some thing I haven’t done since middle school— and for days it felt like a thousand paper cuts with a steady stream of vinegar running through it. I couldn’t believe how long it stayed tender and genuinely began to wonder if it would ever heal. I didn’t really notice when it stopped hurting but there, looking at that sweet hand tapping right on top of my scar, I guess it did.